


Sins of the Centuries

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Racial Segregation, Spells & Enchantments, Time Travel - sort of, Trigger Warning because of sensitive topics, semi-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew his own century, and he knew what her steely determination was going to draw forth, and all because of the pigmentation of her skin.</p><p>[Read opening A/N, please.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Centuries

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly a fic focussing on something the show will most likely not focus on: racial segregation of 1781. First off, let me say that I was more than a little hesitant to write this, given the outcry the fandom exploded into about Abbie being an African American in this century. That, and my knowledge of history is limited at best. My history teachers in school were... rather lacking, around about the time we should have been learning about this. I did attempt to do my research, but it does seem to vary on a case by case basis, so if there are historical inaccuracies, please do forgive them. I do not mean any offense to _anyone_ ; I just think this is an interesting sub-plot that could have been explored, both Ichabod coping with his own lacking choices this season but also making further realisations about the way life used to be.
> 
> All in all, this is generally a more serious, poignant topic than I usually tackle, but I felt drawn to it this time and I hope that it didn't end up too poorly.
> 
> I do not own _Sleepy Hollow_. Thanks for reading.

Ichabod stood nearby, twisting his fingers together impatiently. He watched as Jennifer, Frank, Cynthia, and Macey bustled back and forth in front of the pedestal sitting nearby, the bluish-white surface swirling around lazily. It was almost mocking them, to be sure, easy-going and listless, when they were all out of their mind with worry for Abigail.

They couldn't get back to the past. They had been able to decipher the spell, to find it in the books and the tomes, but the fact remained that his wife was a significantly powerful witch. Try as they may to recite the spell, with much stumbling through the language itself, it didn't _work_ unless there was power behind it. It was a power that none of them possessed; even combined, the spell for travelling into the past was one that they could not cast. Abbie's return depended on Abbie herself, on Abbie and Katrina and whatever was happening in, presumably, 1781.

Ichabod didn't like it.

He was intimately familiar with what it was like to be thrown into a different century. If one had asked him before the past year and a half, being roughly deposited in the year 2013 Anno Domini wasn't anything he might have looked forward to. Not even _might have_. Many a day had he spent dreaming of the future, but when one was plucked from the past and landed in the middle of a paved stretch of road before an eighteen-wheeled vehicle nearly ran one down, it took the curiosity out of such a thing. He could still remember how detached the world had felt, so cold and so distant.

But he had learned, slowly but surely, and he had come to accept that the year 2013 was not as bad as he thought. He had been arrested on suspicion of murder, but they had treated him humanely. The constabulary had been disbelieving of him at first, but now he knew several of them as his friends and close acquaintances. The world was still detached, but, in being so detached, he had found that it was more connected than he had ever imagined. It was a paradox, as so many times in the 21st century was.

Nonetheless, the 21st century wasn't unforgiving, and he had learned to enjoy it immensely. In fact, so much that he wasn't jealous of Katrina or Abigail for being in his own time period while he was here; instead, he was worried.

Living in this century for almost two years had brought light to the many, many problems of his century, ones that he had been blind to while he had been in the midst of. Well, perhaps not blind, but... selective. There were many things that he now knew were unsavoury, even downright immoral, and, while it made him sick to his stomach to ponder, Abbie was now in the thick of it.

Jenny touched his arm, startling him out of his thoughts. "I think we're ready."

Ichabod looked down at her for a long moment before nodding. "Very well," he said, folding his hands behind his back.

They couldn't get into the past, so they were doing the very next thing: they were using a viewing spell. The perks of being able to see into the past, but without the ability to do anything; it wasn't the ideal situation and he couldn't decide if it was better than nothing or not. There was nothing worse than feeling helpless... although he wasn't positive that this was going to make it better.

He clasped hands with Miss Jenny and Miss Macey, taking up his position around the pedestal. They had decided that Cynthia and Frank were staying behind in the event that they needed someone to wake them up, metaphorically. Literally speaking, they weren't going _anywhere_ , but similar to the mirror to Purgatory, they were leaving this realm spirtually. Miss Jenny and Macey were necessary in the event that something went wrong on their end, and Ichabod was going by design. It had been a given, and no one had asked about it.

Ichabod recited the spell with both of his companions, letting his eyes flutter closed as he tried to not let the cold in his veins turn to ice. He didn't know what he was about to witness, but it had to be better than nothing, right? The words for the spell trailed off, leaving them in silence.

For a moment, Ichabod was afraid to open his eyes. But then a breeze ruffled his hair and he was back. He knew he was back; this was his era, his century, his life before death and he breathed in deeply, breathing in the smell of the world he had known. Then, he opened his eyes.

It was with a pang of homesickness that he cast his gaze around. This was his life. This was his _home_. But, then... it wasn't. Not really, not anymore, because of-

"Right, let's find Abbie," Jenny said, letting go of Ichabod's hand. "Macey, stay close."

Ichabod folded his hands behind his back and followed Jenny's lead, trying not to get lost in the world around him. It had been so long. It had felt even longer. There was now a strange mixture of both aching for this century and longing for the 21st. If he had to choose, if he could stay here instead of going back... he honestly had no idea which he would choose.

He wasn't sure where he belonged. Well, he supposed, he knew inexplicably that he belonged with-

Jenny nudged him in the ribs; he came to a standstill and followed her gaze. Across the street, through the throng of people that couldn't see them, there was a familiar shock of raven hair and dark skin, draped over by a kind of dress that Ichabod had never seen her in but still, without a doubt-

"... Abbie," he breathed.

In that instant, nothing else mattered. Not 1781, not 2015, not Katrina or Henry or the replica Liberty Bell, not the dark cloud of five and a half more years of Tribulation. _Nothing_ , because Abbie was _alive_.

(And coping. Ichabod couldn't help raising an eyebrow at the dress. The thoughts of what she might look like in a traditional ballgown came unbidden.)

"I _knew_ she was still alive," Jenny said sharply. Ichabod glanced down at her, finding her expression steely but otherwise guarded. He looked back to Abbie, studiously ignoring how Miss Jenny's eyes gleamed in the sunlight. He shared the sentiment.

Abbie's voice floated across the roads towards them. He couldn't exactly make out what she was saying, but it was _her_ voice, strong and determined and demanding. A prickle of unease settled through him for an instant before-

The sharp slap of skin against skin contact made him flinch first from instinct; when he belatedly realised that the noise had been a man's outstretched hand landing a blow against Abbie's face, his blood boiled.

"Abbie!" He pushed forward without conscious thought, bumping into a passerby in his haste. He was about to snap an apology off without looking around when he realised that the other person hadn't felt his presence, and neither had he actually bumped into them. Because he _wasn't actually there_. This was all just a spell. He was still back with Frank and Cynthia, which meant he could do nothing to help.

He came to a standstill, eyes locked on the group gathered around now. All of them were white men. Ichabod felt the bile burning at the back of his throat.

To her credit, Abbie didn't falter. The look of surprise that flickered across her face may have went unnoticed, but the stony gaze that followed was the Lieutenant he knew. Unfortunately, he knew his own century, and he knew what her steely determination was going to draw forth, and all because of the pigmentation of her skin.

Abbie wouldn't have papers. Abbie could easily be assumed to be a slave that had strayed without permission and, in that case, any white man had the opportunity and, more often than not, the urge to reprimand Abbie's unwillingness to bow down.

What had been _wrong_ with them, as a whole of people, to think that the treatment of people with different coloured skin was _right_?

The man reared back again, the second slap poised to connect in the same spot if Abbie hadn't raised her hands to fight back. The reaction was instantaneous; there were three more men that stepped forward from nowhere, one to grab her dark hair to the roots, the second to force her onto her knees, and the third to hold her there, the hand on her shoulder tearing her dress away from her shoulder to expose the dark expanse of her shoulder and collarbone.

Ichabod could barely breathe. He would have gladly changed places with her if only he were tangible in this realm. If only he could- ‘If only’ was the thought that plagued all of mankind and _still_...

Jenny was positively trembling at his side, eyes blazing and hands curled into fists. Macey was standing by, looking stunned and sick and shrunken in herself.

"... I am so sorry." Ichabod wasn't sure why he said it. It was important. Nearly impossible to grind out from between clenched teeth, but the level of hurt he felt was nothing in comparison. He was disgusted for his own age.

"Not your fault, Crane," Jenny replied bitingly. Her words were like ice. "You didn't fight for this. Where we were treated like _things_. Not people. You didn't."

Perhaps not, but he had known people who did. He didn't say it out loud. He didn't trust his own voice.

_"Enough."_

Ichabod raised his head slowly, away from Abbie and the abject scandal on her face. He knew the tone, the lilt of a British tongue that was intricately familiar to him; it was his own voice. _He_ hadn't spoken, and still...

Around the corner stepped the version of himself that he had known in 1781; Captain Ichabod Crane. The group surrounding Abbie fell back immediately.

Ichabod watched, in a state between disbelief and relief, as his past self stepped forward and helped Abbie to her feet.

"Go about your business," his past self ordered, and Ichabod breathed a sigh of relief. Abbie had found him, or he had found her, but nonetheless, Abbie was in as good of hands that Ichabod could hope for. In thinking that, he wondered if that was self-absorbed to think. If nothing else, he was a Captain. He had more sway than just the average mere man. Slightly.

Ichabod found himself unsticking his feet from the ground, hurrying after his past self and Abbie. It didn't matter, in the long run, because he couldn't speak or communicate in any way with either of them, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Forgive me, I _thought_ you were following me," he was saying.

"No, you're fine, it's- it comes with the territory." Abbie grabbed at the ripped shoulder of her dress uselessly. "Stupid as fuck racial segregation, I can't even- Sorry, but you are _so_ in the wrong in this century."

He watched himself raise an eyebrow. "I will take your... strong-minded opinions into consideration, but do know that I wish this treatment on no one."

Abbie sighed shakily. "I know _you_ don't, you can barely hurt a fly."

"Begging your pardon, Miss Mills, but I-"

"You're a soldier, I know." Abbie smiled wearily. "Trust me, I know you can kick ass when it counts, but you can make some _really_ dumb decisions in the name of love, too."

Ichabod couldn't help but cringe again at the Lieutenant's tone of voice. Clearly she was speaking of Katrina, or even Henry. It was also something that she would never say to his face in the present. He was most hopeless on occasion, he recognised now. It seemed that he still spent much of his time being unaware of his own foolishness. How... unchanging of him.

"I will..." He looked momentarily confused. "... take that into consideration as well, Miss Mills."

"Yeah, you won't." Abbie gingerly touched at the bruise forming on her face. "Let's just get this over with. Come on."

Ichabod watched her lead him away, not following any longer. There was something haunting to his core about the look on Abbie's face. Determined, she was always determined, but... shattered. He suspected - no, he _knew_ \- that it was a facade. He longed to go after her, but knew that the longer he did, the harder it would be to sit at home and do nothing. This venture had been more for confirmation than anything else.

Instead, he returned to Miss Jenny and Macey and together they completed the reverse spell to get back to their physical forms. Neither of them had anything to say, asides from the news that Abbie was alive, breathing, and had met up with Crane, but Ichabod was grateful for the silence. He planted himself at the window, clasping his hands behind his back again. He would be here when she returned, and he owed her countless apologies - for a varying amount of transgressions, to be sure - when she did.

　

 

He _did_ apologise.

Abbie threw her arms around him and held onto him as though it had been years instead of three and a half days. Ichabod held onto her tightly as she buried her face into his chest, tried to ignore the way she trembled under his arms, as he attempted to mind his hand placement for the bruises he noted on her skin. He loathed to think about where those may have come from, and instead mumbled apologies into her hair.

"I don't mean to hurt you," he murmured, combing his fingers through her hair. "It was never my intention, Lieutenant, ever."

Abbie pulled away, thumbing away her stray tears quickly. "Are you kidding me?" she asked. Her tone still managed to be flabbergasted while her voice was cracking.

Ichabod intended to take a step back, clenching his fingers into fists. He deserved her disbelief, especially after the ordeal that he had inadvertantly caused by bringing his wife back from Purgatory.

"You're the only reason I've made it through," Abbie said weakly, and then her oh so carefully constructed facade crumbled.

"Oh, heavens." Instead of stepping away, he drew her back into his arms. "Abbie." He blinked rapidly and ducked his head against hers. His eyes burned, but he had no right, _no right_ , not right now, to be the emotional one. Yet he was. "How could I be so stupid."

Abbie laughed weakly; Ichabod felt the tremors of her laughter through their embrace. "Stupidity's catching in the 21st century. Don't worry about it."

Ichabod smiled wryly, although he still didn't open his eyes. "Yet you remain to be so strikingly intelligent and strong."

"Flatterer," Abbie teased, swatting at his shoulder gently.

 _Not at all,_ he thought to himself. _Not this time._

Abbie sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his neck. Ichabod rubbed circles onto Abbie's exposed shoulder with the pad of his thumb, breathing in the smell of her hair and his century.

"Welcome home, Abbie," he softly.

 


End file.
